When Our Wait Meets an End
by December Writing Dragon
Summary: 1991 sees the collapse of the Soviet Union. Unsure of what this may mean for him, Russia reaches out to America so they may share a more pleasant moment than the formality of meetings. RusAme.


The chill of winter had set in when America came to call. It was the kind of cold that clung to the soul and remained as omnipresent as the sky above. In several months, it would be spring and the snow would melt, the hard earth would give way to mud and vibrant greenery. But now, it was late December. Now, winter was in full force. Fingers numb, limbs stiff, he ambled along in desperate search of his destination. Around him, people milled about, talking amongst themselves, looking wane. America had repeated the address to himself so many times, it seemed to echo through his mind like a mantra. His eyes flicked over the many signs, the Cyrillic letterings once so foreign, now seemed almost like long lost friends. If they could get him to where he wanted to be, he'd gladly consider them just that.

At last, he found it. An apartment complex, so very similar to the ones flanking it, a utilitarian monolith bearing the necessities for functioning. America double-checked the paper clutched in his hand, now crumpled from the dozens of times he'd folded and unfolded it in his restlessness. Several minutes later found him standing in a narrow hallway outside a door of equal insignificance from its neighbors. Before he could really make the conscience decision to act, his hand floated up to knock tentatively on the door.

Each sound of movement just beyond the makeshift barrier sent his stomach into fits of somersaults, his nerves creeping in deeper than the chill as he once again wondered if he should even be doing this. Just as he made to turn away, to head back, to forget any of this had happened, the door creaked open. In the doorframe stood a man slightly shorter than him with a shock of brown hair and startling violet eyes. He was rather stocky, well-fined arms folded tight over his chest as he peered up at America, and amidst the coarse brown hairs of his thin peered, his lips were pulled down in a visible frown. Around his neck hung a small Orthodox tricross.

"Hi, Moscow," America said with more certainty than he felt, standing before Pavel Gavriilovich Braginsky, embodiment of Russia's capital.

Moscow's eyebrows rose, though his expression softened slightly. "America," he said cordially. "To what do we owe this surprise visit?"

"I came to see Russia," he explained in earnest.

At this, Moscow's expression shifted from politely interested to shrewd. "You are _in_ Russia though," he said with a grand sweep of the arm. "All you see before you _is_ Russia. The floor you stand on was made in, by, and for our Motherland. The air you breathe has filled Slavic lungs. That cockroach there is part of it too." He pointed at a bug creeping its way down the hall outside the neighbor's door. "Did you come to see a Russian cockroach, _Amerika_?"

America repressed a sigh. This was the double-edged sword of dealing with Moscow. The man was prone to bouts of cynicism which, when being a bystander were equal parts amusing and fascinating to observe. When on the receiving end of it, however, it made discussions into a type of subtle combat.

"I- you know what I mean," he said desperately, trying to peak beyond Moscow into the quarters beyond. Violet searchlights locked in on the subtle movement, and Moscow reciprocated by shifting to block his field of vision.

"He is not feeling well. You came at an unfortunate time; we are ill-fitted to play host today, regrettably," he grumbled. America met his gaze imploringly. All earlier regret had diminished; now, he just wanted to be allowed entrance, he _needed_ to be. He had to see him…

"It's fine," he tried to reassure. "I don't need anything special-"

"Ah, what a change."

"I just wanted to see Russia. I told him I would."

At this, Moscow's gaze focused on him with a new kind of intensity, reading his face for any sign of deceit. He opened his mouth to speak, but another voice drifted in.

" _Kto tam, Moskva_?" they heard Russia ask softly.

Moscow glanced over his shoulder, back at America, then turned once more to reply, " _Nechevo. Eta Amerika_."

"Hey, Russia!" America called quickly amidst the exchange. Moscow sent him a glower. "I just came to see how you are!" There was a rattling cough coming from somewhere inside the room, and as the horrible sound reached them, Moscow sent him one last disapproving look before bustling inside, waving stiffly for America to follow. Spying a shoe mat, America quickly slid off his sneakers in favor of a pair of soft blue slippers before hurrying after Moscow. Inside, the apartment showed all signs of being lived in for generations; though the hardware seemed to have undergone little changes, personal effects lay sprinkled throughout the home, including photographs, souvenirs, trinkets, mementos, even shining military medals. On an overstuffed couch speckled with floral print lay Russia beneath a mound of blankets, his coughing subsiding to a dull rasping. Moscow strolled over and knelt beside him, asking how he was. Russia waved away his ministrations with a dull flick of the hand before retracting it back under the warm sanctity of the blankets. Russia's own violet eyes flicked tiredly over to America.

"America," he said. "I am afraid I am unable to play host right now. Another time would have been better."

America scowled, though there was no real venom to it. "Hey, I _told_ you I'd swing by.

"Swing by," Russia echoed dryly, a wry smile creeping onto his face. "Swing by half a world away?"

"Exactly!" he said with a thumbs-up.

His only reply was a soft, tired hum. "Hmmm. Pasha, he can stay for now. As long as he understands it might be a dull affair," he added, drawing the blankets further up his chin.

America shot Moscow a winning smile before registering the cool look on his face, causing his grin to slide to something more humble. "Thanks," he muttered, shifting from foot to foot.

"I will go make tea," Moscow stated smoothly, brushing past America towards the adjacent kitchen. The sounds of Moscow bustling about drifted in, mingling with the soft ambience of the television. With more certainty than he felt, America sat himself down beside the couch Russia was laying on, the latter staring determinedly ahead at the news station. America allowed himself a quick glance at Russia; there were bags under his eyes and his cheeks seemed hollowed out. His entire being seemed almost…greyed out, as though someone had dulled any vibrancy to him to a dull saturation. The look did not suit him.

"H…how're you feeling?" America said after some hesitation.

Russia's eyes shot over to America before he could stop himself; they flicked away just as rapidly. "I have never been better."

America snorted, not convinced for a moment. "Yeah, well, you sounded really off over the phone, and you don't sound any better in person. I thought you were worried…" He trailed off. Russia's phone call a day earlier- the call that had triggered America's nagging need to come all the way over- had been a surprise to say the least. America had long grown accustomed to the show of tireless strength Russia liked to put on for his bosses, but not even he could fully hide the hint of concern lacing his voice.

" _If ever you have the time," Russia had begun carefully, "It would be nice to have a meeting outside of politics."_

" _Yeah, it would," America agreed readily. "But I mean we both know where the other lives; there's not a rush, right?" There was a pregnant silence._

" _I just hate when we have to part with only…ah, what is the word…proprietary words between us. It is hardly a pleasant last impression." America narrowed his eyes at that. What was with this talk of last impressions?_

In the end, the statements and requests had weighed on his mind until he could stomach it no more. And so, amidst the major holiday rush, he found himself on the opposite side of the globe at the sickbed of a fellow embodiment. And it was in recalling the strange jumble of events that something finally clicked.

"You think…what- you think you're dying?" The barely-there shift of Russia's shoulders was all the confirmation he needed. He let out a burst of laughter that sounded too loud in the small quarters. "Hah, oh please, man, this isn't going to take you out! You're too tough for that," he added bracingly. He would know, having been competing against him for decades now.

"They think of me as the Soviet Union," Russia murmured, his tone even. But America, who had just spent decades studying Russia ceaselessly, noticed a flicker of something in the violet eyes he had not seen for ages. Fear. "When they think of it, they think of me. And it is dissolving. What if I am too…entwined?" he added, the casual tone slipping from his voice as water drains through cupped hands.

And suddenly, they were not the embodiments of nations whose every move was made to best the other. Suddenly, they were not even in Russia's cramped Moscow apartment with the sounds of cars and the faint static of the television drifting lazily through the air like wisps of transient smoke.

Suddenly, it was America hunched over, shaking from exhaustion, pain, and that same horrific, crippling emotion that the embodiments of nations felt on a level of their own. Fear.

" _What if I die from this?" the question dragged itself unbidden from his mouth, slipping through chattering teeth and dripping from his face with the salty tears trailing from his eyes. "I feel like I'm being torn apart…"_

" _You are not dying," came the soothing voice, the thick accent curling and gruff and so welcome now. "You are too strong. It is the price of a Civil War. You will experience the worst feelings you can imagine, death will feel like an escape, and you will find little comfort in your own head. But you will survive it, and it will be over, and you will be stronger than ever."_

 _Alfred felt the tears flow thicker and faster at the sound of such impending horrors. Surely, nothing about being a nation could be worth enduring all that. "No one can survive that," he muttered, hugging himself. "Not even immortals."_

" _I know for a fact that it can be done," Ivan contradicted lightly, and Alfred heard the soft thumbing of his shoes as he approached. Suddenly, large hands were clasping gently at his shoulders, urging his gaze upward. With no small degree of reluctance, Alfred met Ivan's gaze. Ivan cupped his chin, keeping their eyes locked. "If you can beat this, you can overcome anything. Champion yourself, and nothing can ever harm you again."_

 _Alfred stared in silent awe. "What's the point," he muttered at last._

 _The encouraging smile slid from Ivan's face to be replaced by something more meaningful. "I do not want to see you go," he said at last. "I will accept nothing less than your full recovery." He said it with such finality that Alfred could practically taste the challenge, the command, the order that he_ must _overcome this._

Moscow returned, effectively bringing America back from his reverie, a platter with two tea cups rested in his strong hands. He set it down on the coffee table. As he straightened, his expression turned unfocused, violet eyes staring off into nothing for a moment. Russia took notice of the action and gave him an expectant look.

"Petya is almost here," Moscow explained as he refocused. Russia merely pursed his lips and averted his gaze. "I am going to grab my coat." He offered no explanation; none was needed. An embodiment- nation and city alike- held a tie to those who called themselves their citizens that transcended all possible understanding. Nations and cities alike experienced physical reactions to major events, just as they could embrace this connection and _know_ the goings on of their domain, see within the eyes of their children, share their knowledge as their own. In the brief instance of disconnect, Moscow had been able to see his children walking by a man he had known for centuries, a man who among the general population called himself Pyotr.

The embodiment of St. Petersburg.

There had been a time when getting the two to share a cordial exchange would have been impossible. Amidst the waves of westernization crashing over the tsardom Pavel called his home, Peter the Great wanted a more _European_ capital for his nation. Moscow did not take kindly to having the title stripped from him in favor of what he deemed an artificial city built on a swamp with little historical value. He did not make his thoughts on the issue a mystery either. It would be some time before finally their status as unconditional family would shine strong, that Pavel would see just how able Pyotr was.

And now they would be working together to assist their nation. In this time of turmoil and uncertainty, they would make sure everything would have a positive conclusion.

"I should be joining you," Russia muttered bitterly, glowering at the television screen.

"You should keep resting," Moscow shot back. "We have it handled. We will make sure everything gets taken care of."

America glanced between them, the silence heavy enough to taste. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, there came a knock at the door.

"That will be him," Moscow sighed, and suddenly he seemed much older, much more tired. Shrugging into his coat, he gave Russia a gruff pat on the shoulder before making to leave. America followed hot on his heels. At the door, Moscow wheeled round. A strong hand clamped down on America's forearm, and America swore he could feel the ancient blisters marring Moscow's skin even through all the fabric. "If you are insisting on staying, use this time to take care of him," he hissed. Their eyes met; in his gaze, Moscow tried to convey more that words could say, to slip in a greater meaning of irrevocable gravity. Abandoning speech, he attempted with his eyes alone to initiate a silent method of communicating so mastered among his brothers and sisters. America stared, his own blue eyes wide in bemusement, and although he could not hope to glean the full message, he seemed to comprehend the propensity of it. He nodded stiffly, and only then did Moscow relinquish his grasp. With a final nod, Moscow turned and opened the door. Standing in the frame was St. Petersburg.

If most of Moscow's body mass came from his sturdy width rather than height, St. Petersburg was just the opposite. He was remarkably tall, though rather wiry, the planes of his cheeks accentuated by high elegant cheekbones. Violet eyes shone beneath waves of golden brown locks that laid slicked back against his head, and one elegant hand rested on the head of a cane with a knob of gold resting at the top. Although he was very close in age to America, he carried with him an air of maturity Alfred himself often chose to abandon when the occasion called for it. There was something weary in his gaze, and upon closer inspection, his face seemed _too_ thin, _too_ hollowed out. This was a young man still recovering from the hardships of the war, the scars it had left on the city he watched over.

" _Amerika_ ," he said with a courteous nod before turning to Moscow, who had slipped out of the room. "We will be back soon," he assured. "Tell _Rossiya_ I said hello." He slid the door shut quietly behind him.

Brow furrowed, America turned hesitantly back to the living room, back to the paisley-patterned couch, back to Russia curled under his pile of blankets. Now, the only sounds came from the television and Russia's own ragged breathing.

"So," America began, but just then, there was a distant, metallic rumble, and the heat was turned off. "Aw, what the hell?" he exclaimed, glancing around.

"It switches," Russia explained hoarsely, drawing the covers tighter over himself. "Half of the apartment gets it while the other half does not. There are more blankets in the closet." He jerked his head to indicate the direction.

With a quick nod, America rushed over to the closet, his mind reeling all the while. The past few days seemed like a blur of chaotic emotion, a strange river of events that bumped him around from place to place as he tried to stay afloat. That call from Russia had started it all. Their relationship had been...confusing lately, to say the least. Neither of their actions over the course of the last few decades aided that. They oscillated between frosty glares mixed with barbed insults, to looks of subdued longing when they thought the other wasn't looking. It was so easy to dislike the other, but the more bitterly tender emotions tasted far sweeter to the heart.

There was not much left in it; only two hand knitted throw blankets remained. Nevertheless, he seized them and returned quickly to the couch. With a flourish, he made to drape them over Russia.

"I meant for you," Russia interrupted, peering up at him with a strange look in his violet eyes. "Unless you wanted to share?" He lifted the layers of blankets in invitation.

Heat built up in America's cheeks. "You really are out of it, aren't you?" he asked.

"What is wrong with my suggestion?"

"I thought we were…going to try and make things easier? More…I don't know, clear cut, or whatever?"

"What about this has been confusing? We greet each other, we go about our business, then we return home."

"And then you went and kissed me," America snapped before he could stop himself.

Something flickered in Russia's amethyst gaze. "I did," he conceded. "And apparently you were thrown off. That explains it. You used to be so much better at it- _ah_."

His comment had earned him a sharp pinch on the arm. He frowned down at the pink splotch blossoming across his fair skin.

"Jerk. Well, I'll stick to the original plan then. See you around." He made to stand. A pale claw-like hand shot out and grabbed him around the wrist. America peered down to see Russia staring up at him almost imploringly.

"Do not leave yet," he said with as much authority as his cracked voice could muster. "Please," he added softly.

It was that last bit, said with such doubt and- dare he say it- fear, that did it for America. Combined with his distressed tone and his ragged appearance, America knew he would be going nowhere for some time. With a sigh, he settled back down beside the couch, wrapping the spare blankets around himself as the cold started to settle from no longer having any heat.

"So," he began, his voice seeming too loud in the pressing silence of the apartment. "Where are those two headed?"

A coughing fit hit Russia, causing him to curl in on himself. Despite his apparent chill, sweat plastered his beige bangs to his forehead as he fought to take in some air. By some will of its own, America's hand flew up to rub reassuring circles into Russia's shoulder, feeling the thinned body quake beneath his touch. Taking long, shuddering gasps, Russia was finally granted a reprieve.

"They are overseeing decisions I cannot be there to make myself," he said roughly. "I have given instructions for their advice to be followed as mine would have if I were there." His look clearly said he was not happy with staying home through the whole ordeal, though it was difficult to imagine him managing matters of state in his condition. "I should be there," he whispered.

"No can do, man. Just hang here- those two have got it covered." America said quickly. Unbidden, memories of Russia's reassurances during his Civil War flooded his mind, recalling how the empire had assured him he needed to pace himself, to live today to fight tomorrow. America's hotheadedness made it quite difficult, but in the end, the Slavic nation had won, and America had fallen into a much needed sleep. Today, it was his turn.

Russia, for his part, looked displeased but nevertheless shifted beneath his quilted mound to get more comfortable. His eyes peered blindly ahead beneath pale lashes before fluttering shut.

"Stay…until I am gone…?" he asked, so softly the words could have been part of the ringing silence.

America glanced over at him and felt his stomach turn. Russia had opened his eyes once more and was looking into his own with an intensity America would not have guessed him capable of in such a state. The parts of his face not flushed from his ordeal were chalk white. He looked weary, with pale lips pressed in a thin line and glazed violet pools atop deep circles of fatigue. Looking back, America would be unsure how he was able to drag a warm smile from his features, how he was able to lean his head on the cushion just beside Russia, or make his voice sound so calm and confident when he next spoke.

"I'll be here when you wake up."

0o0o0

Something had changed. Of that much, he was certain even before opening his eyes. It was not necessarily entirely _better_ …but…it would be.

Russia's eyes fluttered open. The apartment still seemed deserted apart from himself and America. The television was still on, but the news had changed. He felt it with every nerve in his body and heard it as the anchorman made his announcements. America had his head in his hand as he leaned against the couch; his previously unfocused gaze became more alert as he saw Russia stir.

"Hey, had a good sl-"

"What has happened?" Russia interrupted, sitting up. He could feel the traces of his ailments still lingering in his body, but there was also a renewed clarity, a knowledge that a new course of action would be taken to amend it all. Everything seemed to have a renewed chaos and clarity he had never experienced before. As his senses caught up with what his mind was processing, he was able to take in the announcement.

Dissolved.

It was completely dissolved.

He no longer had any direct relations to the Soviet Union. He would be its nominal successor, but the union itself no longer existed.

And he was still here. Still…

Alive.

For what felt like the thousandth time, he took a deep quivering breath; the action still irritated his chest and throat, but he now felt a sense of renewal, as if he were simply desperately in need of recharging in order to properly confront the tribulations he faced.

"Told you."

Russia's gaze flicked to America, staring at him with those blue eyes that _always_ held such strong emotions, emotions only Russia got to see. Whether it was burning impatience and frustration or longing and delight, there were certain shades to the eternal blue pools that only Ivan was privy to. Likewise, Alfred had access to sides of Ivan no one else dreamed existed. The many nuances of his personality- his anger, his passion- had revealed themselves to Alfred over the many years they knew each other. It was far from perfect; both had made drastic mistakes that set them back decades. But the thread that bound them refused to break. Even now, in his freezing Moscow apartment, Alfred had stayed. He had offered him cocky words of assurance, his bullheaded personality refusing to believe he might be wrong- or so Ivan thought. And he had kept his word. Ivan could only hope some of his gratitude was visible as he met Alfred's gaze.

It would be some time before Ivan saw the improvement he so hoped for his people. There would be hardships of equal intensity in finding a system that granted some stability. Such stormy seas would carry over to the strange relationship he and Alfred maintained, both desperate to put a name to it, both wanting to wait for just the right time. It seemed that time would be soon…

In several months, it would be spring. The blanket of unyielding frost would be lifted and the earth would be allowed to flourish once more. The clouds would part to reveal stunning blues while the ground displayed rich greens. Soon it would be spring, and the cold would be chased away. Not now though, not just yet. Now, it was still winter. But that was fine. They could wait for spring to shine down once more.

THE END

Well, I figured obligatory 1991 fic is obligatory. Feels like a rite of passage for this ship. Maybe? And there wasn't too much shppyness, I thought. Alas. But I think I want to go back and revamp this in the future; it just didn't seem to do quite what I wanted it to. Although it's not really reflected here, I love the idea of them having a secret relationship behind their bosses' backs, all mockery and competition in public and gentle words and kisses in the sanctity of their private lives, if nations in the midst of such things can have one. I also feel like in some ways I tried to put too much into this? Like, I really wanted to explore the characters of Moscow and St. Petersburg, and tried to keep it at an acceptable amount for a fic that's supposed to focus on Alfred and Ivan.

But for those curious, according to my OC's Moscow is embodied by Pavel (diminutive Pasha) Braginsky; his patronymic in this is Gavriilovich because that was the first name of the mayor of Moscow from June 12 1991 to June 6 1992. His patronymic would change to reflect the first name of the current mayor. St. Petersburg was a very proud man when founded (reflecting the passion of Emperor Peter the Great) and took the name Pyotr (diminutive Petya) Petrovich Braginsky indefinitely as homage to his namesake. Moscow is a certified Orthodox priest and bears numerous burn scars from the many times the city was burned down. Pyotr's cane has a blade hidden in it. He is still a bit thin because of the awful attacks the city faced during World War II, when it was besieged for three years. He and Moscow did not get along at first because Moscow felt insulted his station as the most major Russian city was taken by such a new faraway place. I also have a bit of a Rostov OC planned out. I see all of the city embodiments as having Russia's eyes, as a trait that links them all together.

I'd love to hear your feedback or suggestions; again, I'll probably go back and fix this up a bit because it just did _not_ want to cooperate a lot. Thank you for taking the time to read this!


End file.
